


hat's off to you, love

by babycomebach



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), he's just home of sexual and dumb of ass, it's about the yearning, no beta we die like men, sorry for not using quotation marks i felt Edgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 19:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20662313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babycomebach/pseuds/babycomebach
Summary: Crowley, he says, I love—Crowley’s pupils engorge a bit behind his sunglasses, turning from slits into something much rounder, something much more hopeful.—this hat of yours. Really, it’s rather handsome. Aziraphale has panicked.__________Crowley's hat has been in Aziraphale's closet since 1941. Aziraphale has had enough of it.





	hat's off to you, love

**Author's Note:**

> you know that one part in ep. 1 when aziraphale is bum bum bum-ing and hanging up his coat? yea. my pal alex noticed that in his closet, there's a hat that looks Nothing like anything aziraphale would ever let near him. but it sure does look like the hat crowley wears to save his bf in 1941. so here's this.

_Lift home?_

Of course. It’s dangerous out there, after all, London a constant war zone. He’s not been discorporated now, so he’d like to avoid it on the way back, thank you very much. And his ride had turned out to be a double-crossed spy, and he’d really rather not walk.

That’s the only reason he goes agape at the perfectly preserved satchel of books for just a moment more and steps, quickly as you please, to the waiting demon—and the car, which is new. New, generally, as in having only been invented in the past few decades, and a new possession of Crowley’s. How new, though, he isn’t really sure. It’s been a while. He doesn’t like to dwell. 

Of course he’d like a lift.

It’s quiet in the car for a while—for longer than it should be—save for the rather loud growl of the engine and the occasional squeal of tires on pavement. Crowley drives incredibly fast, which shouldn’t surprise him. Aziraphale’s knuckles are a bit white where he’s grasping onto the handle of his bag.

Runs like a dream, is the first thing Crowley says. He’s radiant.

Aziraphale would’ve more quickly made the comparison to a nightmare, but he’s not trying to be rude. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in a century, after all. He offers up a tight smile. Then, finally, he directs Crowley properly to the bookshop.

The bookshop remains intact because it always does, because it must, and when Crowley stops outside they idle. Aziraphale invites him in for a drink.

Oh, angel, he says. You tempt me. But I’ve got work to do.

As it turns out, Hell does think he’s responsible for all this nonsense, which he isn’t, because it’s a bit much, isn’t it, a bit cruel, but it’s really for the best that they keep on thinking it’s his work.

That’s alright, Aziraphale tells him, and it is probably the first lie he’s told in a while. Really, dear boy, I do understand. Thank you for the assistance, anyway, and for the drive.

The gratitude is unnecessary, really. It’s just part of the Arrangement. Nothing more. (It’s not even really convincing when Aziraphale says it to himself, so why bother?)

His free hand moves to the handle of the car door.

Oh, but the books. His precious books, safe and sound with him. Thanks to Crowley. His friend, all these years. His partner, despite their supposedly opposite goals.

Crowley, he says, I love—

Crowley’s pupils engorge a bit behind his sunglasses, turning from slits into something much rounder, something much more hopeful.

—this hat of yours. Really, it’s rather handsome. Aziraphale has panicked.

(Tough business, loving a demon when you really shouldn’t and when it’s probably a sin and when you’ve only realized how properly you adore him tonight and—well. You get the idea.)

Crowley, used to the not-quite-rejection, grins a bit devilishly, and flips the hat off his head to place it a bit crookedly on the angel’s.

Here, then. You have it. Something to remember me by.

Aziraphale can’t say no, obviously, having already blundered more than enough tonight. He just blinks, and nods, and steps out of the car, and says, I’ll be seeing you soon, then, and disappears inside the shop.

And that’s that.

* * *

And then he can’t get rid of the hat.

They’ve settled down in London, the two of them, and Crowley is no longer sleeping his century-long nap and they decidedly do not talk about The Holy Water Incident, which is how Aziraphale petulantly recalls it in his head, and whether by accident or on purpose they tend to see each other more often.

While they’re out for tea, Aziraphale says: Oh! I was doing some spring cleaning, and I’ve found that lovely hat of yours. I’ve not worn it as I thought I might, so you’re welcome to have it back.

And Crowley says: Nah, I’d rather not. Already got plenty of hats. You keep that one.

Aziraphale has not yet seen him wear another hat.

* * *

(It may be a question why Aziraphale is eager to get rid of the hat to begin with. It is just a hat, after all. But it’s because Aziraphale, like most, doesn’t like being reminded of his mistakes. 

The hat reminds him of his mistakes. A very big mistake, really, possibly the worst one.

He should have just said it, of course. But he didn’t.

So every time he opens his closet he’s reminded that he didn’t say it and that he does feel it, very much so, like a warm and aching pain inside his chest, much different from the love he feels for other living things; and it’s really so much trouble, loving a demon when you shouldn’t—but you get the idea.

He really should get rid of the hat. Is all.)

* * *

Crowley is at the bookshop, sitting very improperly in an armchair—which means sideways, his long legs dangling over the edge of an armrest and spread a bit too much—when Aziraphale asks again. 

Crowley, dear, I’ve still got this hat of yours. Are you sure you don’t want it?

Angel. How could you even suggest such a thing?

Crowley is a little drunk. In fact, they both are.

Angel. Hell is—very, very against fabric hats, at the moment. If I was caught with it I’d—

he draws his index and middle finger over his throat in a slicing motion, lowers his voice to whisper,

_I’d die._

He does not take the hat home with him. Aziraphale leaves it on his coat rack. For safekeeping.

* * *

This time they’re out at dinner. Aziraphale had seen the black hat before he’d left, and he’d only wanted to pick out a nice evening coat, and now he’s a bit flustered, which he doesn’t like. It’s not fair that he be flustered, because his food doesn’t digest properly. 

Crowley, my dear, you really must take this hat of yours. There’s just no room for it in the shop anymore, you see. I’ve got—

and he launches into a very long explanation of books and cataloguing and cocoa, even, which Crowley doesn’t listen to.

Is Crowley a bit flustered himself? No, Aziraphale decides himself, forcing the answer a bit. No, of course he isn’t.

Sure, angel. He agrees.

He gives Aziraphale a lift home, and Aziraphale offers a cheery Back in a jiff! before he disappears inside to fetch the offensive hat. He hears the tires squeal on the pavement before he reaches the closet.

The Bentley is gone when he opens the door again, of course. 

Aziraphale's food doesn't digest properly. The whole ordeal is rather upsetting.

* * *

It takes nearly a century. Nearly a century, and a failed Apocalypse, and the realization on Aziraphale’s part that it doesn’t matter anymore. Well. That plenty matters, but specifically, that it isn’t tough business loving a demon anymore. Not when you’ve inhabited his body for a bit, and been literally to Hell and back, and when there isn’t any danger for either of them in doing so.

And, of course, it takes their being drunk. Crowley stands in the middle of the sitting area, pacing with a glass of wine and sluggishly recalling the ways in which the Underground is a miserable transportation system, thanks to him. And Aziraphale realizes.

Without a word, he traipses to the closet, and picks up the _fucking_ hat, and sets it lopsided on his head.

Crowley, he announces rather loudly, too loudly, when he’s made his way back. I don’t like this hat at all.

It doesn’t quite match anything I’ve got, and it smells a bit funny, and it’s not even very handsome like I said it was, and oh, I love _you_.

Crowley nearly trips over himself in the process of grabbing Aziraphale’s face and kissing him properly. The hat, displaced from the angel’s head, falls to the floor with a soft _thud._

**Author's Note:**

> hmu if you want to scream about the yearning :)


End file.
